


Birthdays In 221B (Or, How Mycroft Holmes Set Up the Boys of 221B, Through the Excuse of Birthday Gifts)

by TheWhovianQueen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:46:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhovianQueen/pseuds/TheWhovianQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All in the title, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Birthdays are a special time of the year, a day for celebration of a person's arrival in the world and of their particular talents and attributes. A day for the person to relax and be showered with affection or gifts, or at the very least do something they've been wanting to do for a while.

John Watson found himself thinking this as he woke up on March 31st, his birthday. Certainly Sherlock had planned something special for him.

As he came downstairs, feeling rested and alive, he saw Sherlock leaned over an experiment. The detective didn't acknowledge the other's appearance with a greeting or a wave, instead focusing on the petri dish he had a pair of tweezers in.

John bounded up to him. "Good morning, Sherlock!" He quipped.

Sherlock looked up. "What's got you in such a delighted mood?"

John faltered slightly, but persisted. "Do you know what day it is?"

Sherlock thought, searching his massive brain for any reminder of what occasion it was today, on March 31st.

"It's Bunsen Burner Day." He finally came up with. "But I don't believe that you are so excited about that as I am, so pray tell what is so special about today in your head, John?"

John scowled at Sherlock. The git had forgotten! Or, more likely, deleted it from memory. Sherlock never forgets anything. So he hadn't deemed it important enough to remember, ay?

"Nevermind." John huffed. "It's nothing."

Sherlock watched, bewildered, as John spun around and stalked off, his good mood seemingly evaporated. What had he said?

Resolving to look into it later, he turned back to his work. John sat on the couch with his laptop, blogging, and ignoring Sherlock.

Soon, Sherlock received a text from Lestrade. Whooping, he called, "John, a case! Come on!"

"Not today, Sherlock." Was John's reply. Sherlock paused in his rush for his coat and looked at John. The man didn't seem ill or injured. Slowly nodding, Sherlock said, "Alright then. I'll be home later, then."

He disappeared out the door. John glared after him, then sighed. Of course Sherlock wouldn't remember his birthday. He doesn't care about people. Only his work. Turning back to his blog, he tried to forget it.

When Sherlock arrived at the crime scene, he found Lestrade and asked about the details. It turned out to be the murder of a young boy, and done by a serial killer who suffocated his victims before cutting out their tongues.

As he examined the body, his phone rang. Straightening up and stepping to the side, he read the text.

I hope you're happy. John is at your flat alone and appears to be quite upset. -MH

Sherlock sent a reply to his brother.

How is this my problem? And I asked you to remove the cameras from our flat. -SH

Obviously, you forgot the occasion. -MH

Yes, he did ask about something like that. What occasion did I miss? -SH

His birthday, obviously. How could you of all people not realize? Honestly. -MH

Oh. That explains why he was unusually chipper. -SH

Yes. -MH

People actually care about birthdays? -SH

Yes. -MH

I suppose I need to apologize. -SH

Yes. -MH

A few minutes passed while Sherlock stared at the phone. Then he sighed and texted back.

You just delight in me owing you favors, don't you? -SH

Whatever do you mean? -MH

Fine, I'll play your stupid game. Will you please help me apologize to John? -SH

Already made the arrangements. His gift (from you) will arrive at 6:35 tonight. Please don't screw it up. -MH

I don't "screw things up." -SH

Mycroft didn't text back, but Sherlock had predicted that and had already put away his phone after that last text. He went back to his crime scene.

When John hung up the phone with Harry, who had called to wish him a happy birthday, he decided to go and buy himself a special dinner. By the time he got home, (at 6:24), Sherlock was already back and pacing around the flat.

"Finally! You're back, I was worried you'd be late." He said upon seeing John.

"Late for what?" John asked, hanging up his cloak.

Sherlock didn't respond, only sitting down and messing with his experiments. John shook his head.

Eleven minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Sherlock was up in a flash, calling, "Sit down and stay there!" over his shoulder to John, who had stood as well.

Sherlock opened the door. Anthea stood there, texting on her blackberry and holding a box in her free hand. Sherlock took the box and thanked her. She nodded without looking up, then turned and walked back to the car.

John looked up when Sherlock came back up the stairs. "What was that about, then?"

Sherlock handed him the gift box. "Happy birthday, John. I apologize for upsetting you earlier."

John took the box, a bit surprised. "Oh. Sherlock, thanks. I had thought you had forgotten."

Sherlock wisely stayed silent. John unwrapped the box. He pulled out a new laptop. "This is… really expensive. Sherlock, you didn't have to."

Sherlock hmphed, standing up and striding off. "Don't mention it."

John hid a smile, he knew Sherlock was embarrassed. He figured he had had to ask Mycroft to help. He wasn't a fool, he knew what happened. But the fact that Sherlock had swallowed his pride and asked his brother for help meant that, on some level, he cared for John.

That was, in a way, the best birthday present John had ever gotten.


	2. Chapter 2

John sat up suddenly. He had previously been lying on the couch listening to Sherlock torture his violin, but a sudden realization had him thinking.

"Sherlock, I don't know when your birthday is." John said. Sherlock paused in his playing, regarding John.

Then he sniffed and continued playing, saying, "What does it matter. Birthdays are for three-year olds and people with cancer."

John glared at him. "That was mean and uncalled for."

Sherlock did not apologize.

John sighed. "Well, I wasn't going to throw you a party, you would insult all the guests. But I would like to get you a gift."

"Anything I need, I will buy myself." Sherlock said hotly. "There's nothing you could possibly get me that I would like that I do not already have."

John looked at him curiously. "Are… have you ever gotten a birthday gift? Surely your family…" He trailed off.

"Mycroft gives me menial gifts." Sherlock told him. "Other than that, no, nobody knows my birthday."

"Will you tell me?" John asked, hopeful.

"No. It's unimportant." Was the response.

John dropped the issue, but resolved to find out when Sherlock's birthday was.

A few weeks later, John remembered his goal. Sherlock was out of the flat, probably at the morgue digging through suitable cadavers. John decided to go through his room, looking for a calendar.

Opening the door, he gagged and immediately closed it again. That was out. The severed head and dead rats were starting to smell.

Suddenly, John snapped his fingers. Mycroft. Sherlock's brother knew everything (or so he says) so surely he would know his own brother's birthday.

John whipped out his phone and sent the man a quick text.

Mycroft, when is Sherlock's birthday? -JW

A reply came a minute later.

He has requested I not share that information with anyone. -MH

Since when do you listen to him? -JW

It will cost. -MH

Really? You Holmes's, nothing is simple. Fine, what do you want? -JW

That was it. That you were willing to pay for such trifling data. You must care for my younger brother quite a bit. -MH

John cursed. Damn Mycroft Holmes.

Can I just have the date? -JW

January the sixth. -MH

Thanks. -JW

Mycroft didn't text back, but John didn't mind. He got what he wanted.

January 6th. It was November 10th today, so he had around two months to find a suitable gift.

That wasn't so hard. Get Sherlock something he likes. John thought for a minute, then slapped his forehead.

What the hell does Sherlock like?

John wondered about it for nearly a week. Sherlock had said that he would not like anything that someone could get him. And knowing Sherlock, it was probably true.

A new violin? Sherlock preferred the one he had, and John didn't know anything about violins or how to purchase one.

Nicotine patches? That was a filthy habit and John wouldn't fuel it.

What else did Sherlock like? John refused to give him any body parts or animals, dead or alive. Any chemical or powder for experiments would probably qualify as "menial", as Sherlock could just as easily purchase them himself.

Tea, no. No food items, Sherlock wouldn't eat them anyway. A new coat? John hated to admit it, but Sherlock had better taste in clothes than he did. Besides, he blushed when thinking this, he looked quite handsome in his clothes already.

So then what was he supposed to get for Sherlock freakin' Holmes? He would have to go to Mycroft again. Damn.

There was a knock on the door. When John got to it, he wasn't at all surprised to see the man secretly running the government standing on his doorstep.

"Come in, Mycroft." He invited the other man inside. Mycroft strolled in, umbrella dangling from his fingers.

"Hello, John. As I am very busy and cannot wait for you to ask for help, I have decided to give you the answers you seek directly. You are welcome." Mycroft said once he had seated himself in Sherlock's chair.

"Alright." John said, pleased that he hadn't had to beg.

Mycroft pulled a paper out of his coat pocket. Showing it to John, he said, "This was my brother's dearest possession from birth until he was ten years old." It was a picture of a stuffed rabbit, wearing a smart black waistcoat. It had button eyes and one of it's ears was folded down. It looked extremely shabby and well-loved.

John took the picture as Mycroft continued. "This was his only friend growing up. Unfortunately for Sherlock, his classmates didn't approve of a ten year old having such a childish toy and stole it from him."

"That is unfortunate." John agreed. "But what do I get him if it's been stolen?"

Mycroft gave him a are-you-really-this-stupid look. "Obviously, you get him another one. I'll give you the name of the company and their number, you can order one. You can hide it with me until his birthday."

John looked at the picture. The rabbit looked like something a child would have confided in when the world was being cruel. "I appreciate your help, Mycroft. And if you don't mind me asking, what happened to the rabbit?"

Mycroft leaned back. "A boy stole it on Sherlock's birthday. He burned it up and spat on it, declaring it a birthday gift."

John was amazed and disgusted. "That must be why he doesn't like birthdays."

Mycroft only nodded.

John clutched the picture. "I'll call tomorrow. Should I give them your address?"

Mycroft stood up. "No need, I'll intercept it before it gets to your doorstep. I must get going, it was lovely. Farewell, John."

"Uh, yeah, cheers." John muttered offhandedly. Poor Sherlock. That must have been devastating.

He placed the order the next day. After two weeks, he still did not receive the toy, so he assumed Mycroft had collected it like he said he would. Sherlock, amazingly, didn't suspect.

The consulting detective was getting more and more nervous as January 6th came nearer, though he would never admit it to anyone. He didn't tell John his birthday, and no one else knew. Mycroft was the only…

Of course. John had gone to Mycroft. But that still didn't explain what he had decided to get him. Sherlock puzzled. There was nothing that he particularly wanted. He thought birthdays were stupid. He had thought that since he had turned ten.

And that boy had killed Mr. Hops. But Sherlock shook that off. It didn't matter.

January 5th, John was the more nervous of the two. He had picked up the toy from Mycroft and it was stuffed in his closet. He didn't have time to wrap it because Sherlock hadn't slept in two days and he would hear the crinkling of the wrapping paper. The only thing John had been able to do was tie a large yellow bow around the rabbit's neck. It was a considerably nicer-looking toy than the one John had seen in the picture. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't mind.

He went to bed, exhausted. When he woke up, it was to the sounds of birds. Glaring at the offending feathered rat, he stretched and got up. Going downstairs, he cooked a nice breakfast for Sherlock and himself. Sherlock came downstairs minutes later, probably drawn by the smells. He was not working on a case, so John had been able to convince him to eat a full meal at least twice a day.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock." John said when he saw the other man. Sherlock stiffened, then relaxed after a few seconds when John didn't say anything more.

"Thank you."

John served some eggs onto a plate and set them on the table. "Would you like a waffle?" Sherlock was about to open his mouth to say no, but a look from John made him sigh and nod.

John gave him a waffle. The two sat in silence, eating. Sherlock was wary of John, just as John was wary of scaring Sherlock off. Eventually, he cleared the plates and Sherlock went to work on an experiment. John ran and fetched the rabbit from his closet.

Returning to the living area, he held the stuffed animal behind his back, out of sight. Sherlock looked up when John stood directly to the side of him, waiting for Sherlock to notice him.

"Yes?" Sherlock inquired.

John gulped, then said, "I got you a present."

Sherlock's face darkened. "Did you."

"Yes." John nodded firmly. "I did. And I know what you said, but I think you will like this." He pulled the rabbit out from behind his back.

To say that Sherlock was surprised would be an understatement. The petri dish in his hand clattered to the table. In one swift movement, he had snatched the rabbit, whirled around, and held it up to examine it.

John was pleased. Sherlock did like his gift after all.

Sherlock was entranced. It was Mr. Hops. A newer, cleaner Mr. Hops, but it was him. How had John known? Mycroft. He knew he should feel mad or indignant, but he only felt incredibly thankful. John had actually cared enough to get him something so precious.

"Er, you're happy with it, then?" John said from behind him.

Sherlock reverently set the rabbit down on the table, far away from the chemicals. Then, to his surprise and John's, he slowly spun around and embraced John in a great hug. Burying his face in John's shoulder, he mumbled, "Thank you."

John staggered, then cautiously put his hand up to rub Sherlock's back. "Uh, no problem. It was nothing."

"No, John, it wasn't nothing." Sherlock said, not moving his position. "It was incredible insight and a show of caring. Thank you for caring for me, John."

John smiled fondly at Sherlock. "You're welcome."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had learned not to delete John's birthday from his mental hard-drive, and so when March rolled around he knew he had to buy the good doctor a gift.

He was not daunted by the prospect. John was easy to deduce. He wouldn't have to spend too much time looking for a gift.

He spent a week observing John. The doctor certainly was an open book, at least for Sherlock. Or maybe it was just that Sherlock had a larger than average intelligence. But nevertheless, Sherlock knew what John wanted.

He didn't want an actual gift, persay. He would appreciate a store-bought item, and that's all he would expect from Sherlock, the detective being so unconcerned with birthdays. Sherlock knew that John expected him to simply give him a new jumper or mobile phone.

But what John really yearned for was an expression of fondness, for Sherlock to show he cared. Sherlock admitted to himself that he was quite harsh to John. Being a high-functioning sociopath, he didn't always realize when something he says offends his flatmate or when he interferes with John's plans. He resolved to be more considerate more subtly in the future, but for John's gift he would need, bluntly, a display of emotion.

He thought about this over dinner with John. The army doctor was quietly eating his Chinese takeout while Sherlock was away in the depths of his mind, occasionally taking bites when John reminded him. How could he express to John that he cared about him, that he valued his companionship? John was certainly a caring lark. Sherlock, on the other hand, was not an expert in this field.

He grew frustrated when he could not come up with a way to display emotion. It just wasn't something he learned or retained knowledge of as a child. He knew how to act like he had emotion when it was required for a case, but to outright FEEL emotion was another matter entirely.

Angry with himself, he stood abruptly and withdrew to his room. John, alarmed, didn't try to stop him, but recognized that Sherlock was in his own world. Knowing how to deal with this version of his friend, he boiled some water and made tea. While it cooled, he quietly cleared the table and put away the food, moving aside the heads in the fridge. Then he took the cup of tea and went upstairs, pushing open Sherlock's door and wordlessly handing it to the detective. Sherlock accepted it, equally soundless, as if he didn't realize what he had just done. Perhaps he didn't. John nudged him, and Sherlock took a sip.

His phone buzzed. He ignored it. John sighed, shaking his head with a wry grin, and reached into Sherlock's coat pocket, drawing out his phone. He wrenched Sherlock's arm up and deposited the phone in his hand. When Sherlock felt a weight in his hand, he was pulled from his mental state to reality, flipping open the phone and thanking John.

The doctor nodded and left. Sherlock read the text.

You are so thick. -MH

How so? -SH

Have you decided on a gift for our John? -MH

He's MY John, not OURS. -SH

Yes, of course. -MH

Mycroft, on his side of the conversation, smirked as he saw Sherlock's not-so-subtle correction of his pronoun. He was possessive of John.

Sherlock replied to his earlier question.

I deduced that I need to do something that displays emotion, specifically caring. I am at a loss for what to do. -SH

Do you need suggestions? -MH

They would be appreciated. -SH

Spend the day doing something John wants to do. Indulge him. Forget about cases and experiments, or at least move them to the back of your mind. It's a day to celebrate John. -MH

I will take that into consideration. -SH

Sherlock tossed aside his phone. Forget about cases and experiments? How dreadfully boring. But he supposed that John was worth it.

March 31st came quick enough. John woke up incredibly relaxed and stretched, yawned, and put on his comfiest jumper. When he went downstairs, he saw Sherlock sitting at the table, rocking in agitation.

"Er, good morning." John said. Sherlock's head shot up.

"John! You're finally awake. Happy birthday! I made breakfast while I was waiting for you. And I made tea. Good tea, I've drank some of it. Well, Mrs. Hudson helped a bit with the tea. Well, she helped a lot. But I made the food. And after you eat, we can do something." He rambled.

John stared. Sherlock made breakfast? He actually made tea? John picked up the mug Sherlock poured him and actually enjoyed it.

He decided, wisely, to not look a gift horse in the mouth and got himself a plate of bacon and pancakes. While he ate, Sherlock practically bounced as he waited for John to finish.

The phone rang. Sherlock snatched it.

"This is Holmes. What do you want, Lestrade? A case?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed, but he saw John groan as he heard the word "case." Thinking of his friend for once, Sherlock restrained himself and did the unthinkable.

While John was readying himself to be pulled out the door by a case-driven Sherlock, he heard the man say, "Not today, Lestrade. Yes, you heard me. Yes, I know the Yard is incompetent, I've been telling you that, it's just today is John's birthday. Okay, I'll tell him." Sherlock hung up the phone.

"Lestrade says happy birthday." He muttered.

John gawked at his flatmate. Sherlock Holmes had turned down a case, for him? Sherlock noticed him staring and said, "Close your mouth, John, you are not a codfish."

John shut his mouth and leaned over the table to press his palm to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock didn't react until John pulled away, satisfied that he had no fever.

"Really, John, sick?" Sherlock scolded. "That was the best explanation you could come up with for my behavior?"

"I'm sorry, it's just, you've never turned down a case before." John explained.

"Yes I have." Sherlock countered. "I refuse to do cold cases that take less than five minutes. And I rarely do cases that Mycroft offers me."

"But, you've never turned down a case for ME." John clarified, still amazed.

Sherlock said nothing to this, just indicated that John should hurry up and eat his breakfast.

When John ate his last bite, Sherlock cleared his plate and stuck it in the dishwasher. "So what do you want to do today?" He asked, returning to his seat.

"Anything?" John questioned, to fully understand how much reign Sherlock would let him have.

"Yes. Well, except visit Mycroft, although I doubt you had that in mind." Sherlock said.

John sat back. It had been a while since just he and Sherlock had spent the day together out. There was a lot he wanted to do.

"Well, let's see a movie first." He suggested.

They hailed a cab to the nearest theater. Sherlock paid, and they sat in the back to watch a horror movie.

Sherlock resisted from saying the ending just by reading the description, and said nothing at all during the movie. He was not scared at all and in fact was rather bored, but John was practically jumping out of his skin.

At one point, John grabbed Sherlock's hand for comfort as the protagonist was nearly ripped to shreds by a werewolf. Sherlock sat perfectly still until John noticed and let go, thankful that it was dark so Sherlock couldn't see him blush.

When the movie ended, Sherlock strolled out of the theater, John on his heels. The army doctor was still slightly shaking with terror, but it was faint. He had enjoyed the movie, and he had even more enjoyed Sherlock being able to resist spoiling the ending.

"Where to now, John?" Sherlock asked just outside the theater.

John thought. "Let's have lunch." They went to Angelo's, of course. John didn't protest when Angelo brought over a candle to their table, nor when Sherlock took one look at the menu and ordered for them both. Sherlock ordered what he would have chosen, anyway.

As they ate, Sherlock quizzed John on his favorite things, what he liked to do, his life in the army. John answered honestly, though he had a sneaking suspicion Sherlock already knew everything about him by reading his therapist's files. He certainly acted like it sometimes. But nevertheless, he enjoyed talking with Sherlock.

Sherlock, for the most part, was enjoying himself. He in fact did know everything in John's therapist's files, but he listened to John's answers as if he was listening with rapt attention. And to be honest, he was. John shined when he talked, especially when he was talking to Sherlock. The detective had been noticing this lately, that whenever he spoke to John, the army doctor just dropped everything to listen. He only spoke in short snatches to John, excepting when he needed someone to explain his genius deductions to. When he did actually converse, John was the one who hung on his every word.

They split a bowl of strawberry gelato, then paid and left the store. John thought this was the nicest birthday he had ever had, or at least the nicest one since he had joined the military. Sherlock, being the confident bastard he normally was, reached out and took John's hand in his own. John started, then looked at Sherlock, who was staring straight ahead with an expression of contentment on his face. Smiling broadly, John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand and continued walking. When they made it back to the flat, John unlocked the door with his key, reluctantly letting go of Sherlock's hand. Pushing open the door, the two were met with Mrs. Hudson holding a cake and grinning widely.

"Happy birthday, dear!" She proclaimed excitedly.

John laughed. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Don't thank me, thank Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson waved him off. "He asked me to make this because he would be out with you all day and too busy to."

John looked for Sherlock, who had disappeared into the apartment somewhere. Then he took the cake from the old woman, who was faltering slightly under the weight of the plate. "Sherlock can bake?" He asked.

"Oh yes! He's made some exquisite meals before. You should try one of his creme brûlées, they're delicious!" Mrs. Hudson claimed, before wishing John a happy birthday once more and heading off to her own room.

Curious at this discovery about his friend, John hung up his coat and walked up the stairs. Sherlock was on the couch, reading a book.

"What book is that?" John inquired.

Sherlock looked up. "It's a cookbook. I'm going to make dinner tonight."

John stared at him. "You can't even make a cup of tea properly."

"Tea isn't cooking." Sherlock responded.

"If I don't make you eat, you'd starve."

"I told you, I don't eat when I'm on a case."

"In all the years I've known you, you've never cooked anything."

"Not true. I frequently cook experiments in the microwave."

"I mean edible food."

"Still false. I made you breakfast."

"Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock grinned lazily. "Surprised that I'm not completely dependent on you for survival?"

John shook his head, flustered. "Nevermind. What are you going to make?" He asked, still not completely convinced.

"Probably sushi. You like sushi, right? And rice?" Sherlock flipped the page.

Of course John liked sushi, and Sherlock knew it. John threw up his hands. "If you say so. We'll see how well you can cook."

Sherlock just said, "Oh ye of little faith."

When Sherlock called John for dinner, a few hours later, John suspiciously looked at the food in front of him.

"Are there any poisons in there? Drugs? Chemicals?" He asked, scrutinizing the fishy dishes.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Do you have such low expectations of me that you think I would poison you on your birthday? I'm hurt, John."

John took a bite. Tasted all right. Sherlock smiled. "How do you like it?"

"It's really good!" John said in amazement. Sherlock sat down across from him and began eating his own dinner.

"I told you." He said. John glared at him, then shrugged.

"Yeah, alright, you can cook. Thanks for dinner."

"You're welcome." Sherlock's smile was dazzling. "Anytime."

After dinner, they sat on the couch and watched crap telly. John leaned on Sherlock's shoulder, half-asleep. Sherlock sat immobile, worried he would disturb John if he moved. Eventually, he heard snoring. Sighing with relief, Sherlock gently moved John's head from off his shoulder and onto the couch. He stood up.

It would not do to let John sleep on the couch. Even though Sherlock rarely slept, his blogger needed daily sleep to feel energized and healthy. Carefully scooping John up, Sherlock carried him upstairs to John's bedroom. Depositing him on the bed, Sherlock pulled the sheets over him and then left, pausing at the doorway to survey John's still form. Blinking in satisfaction, he went to his own room and turned in for the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke to the feeling of lips pressed against his forehead. Opening his eyes, he smiled at John. "Good morning."

"Happy birthday, love." John said back, with a fond smile.

Sherlock sat up, with help from John. He coughed, then bent over in pain. John looked at him in concern.

"I think I had better change your bandages." He commented. Sherlock nodded.

"I still don't think I should have to stay in bed all day." the detective pouted, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

John fixed him with a stern look. "Sherlock. You were nearly crushed by a sumo wrestler. You will STAY IN BED until your ribs are healed."

Sherlock sighed. "It's been weeks, John, I can get up now."

"I'm your doctor, and I know what's best."

"But-"

"No buts, Sherlock."

"But-"

"I mean it!"

Sherlock stared at him impetulantly. John crossed his arms. "But it's my BIRTHDAY." Sherlock mumbled, after John had shown no signs of budging.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was bouncing around the kitchen while John was attempting to make tea.

"Sherlock, STOP MOVING!" John hollered. "You're still fragile."

"Nonsense, John, I feel fine. Are you done with the tea yet?" Sherlock came up behind him and draped his arms around John's neck, peering over his shoulder. John rolled his eyes at his boyfriend's antics. He poured the tea into a mug and held it up. Sherlock reached over his shoulder and snatched it, whirling away and sipping at it.

"Are you sure your ribs feel fine?" John asked one more time. Sherlock nodded. "Good. Let me go grab your present."

Sherlock gave him an I-Told-You-Very-Specifically-Not-To look. John ignored him, running upstairs to his bedroom. Searching for a few minutes, he grinned when he found the gift. Returning to Sherlock, who was now sitting on the couch, he handed him the package.

"Mycroft suggested something again, didn't he?" Sherlock inquired as he reached for the present. John just grinned sheepishly.

Sherlock unwrapped the box. Inside were two plane tickets to Peru. At Sherlock's questioning glance, John said, "There's been a serial killer who's crossed countries to murder his victims. Twelve dead, in Britain, America, China, Chile, Australia, and now Peru. Officials are baffled. Mycroft persuaded them to let you have a go."

John became nervous when Sherlock's face didn't change for what seemed like an impossibly long time. Finally, Sherlock launched himself at John, planting a big kiss on the army doctor's mouth.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'll start packing right away. This is Christmas! John, you're brilliant!" Sherlock started dancing around the flat. He pointed at a crack in the ceiling. "And you, dear brother, are a saint. I still hate you, which is why I say “saint.” Saints only become saints when they're dead."

John glared suspiciously at the crack. Mycroft had promised to remove all the cameras from the flat. Sherlock, apparently, knew otherwise.

The consulting detective spun around. "Come on, John, pack! The tickets are for tomorrow!" He rushed upstairs, nearly tripping over himself. John chuckled to himself, following the man he loved upstairs. Luckily for Sherlock, John had forgotten about his ribs.


	5. Chapter 5

"What, no case? I though I heard Lestrade call." John yawned as he walked downstairs, clad in pajama pants and an old tshirt and bathrobe.

Sherlock was reading a book. He didn't look up. "I assumed you would like to relax today. I made reservations at a restaurant for dinner."

John kissed his forehead. "That was sweet, but I've been itching to work on another case lately. It's been days."

Sherlock grinned. "Are you sure? It is your birthday."

"That's why you should call Lestrade and tell him we'll be right over." John went to make tea. Sherlock flipped on his phone and sent a quick text.

"An hour, John, then we have to be at Scotland Yard." He called, going to get dressed.

John poured his tea and chuckled to himself. He knew that Sherlock was itching to be at the Yard. He was, too, to be honest. The best birthday was just being with Sherlock, no matter where. And a case was always exciting.

Sherlock came downstairs fully dressed, and John finished his tea. After he was dressed in jeans and a jumper, he grabbed his coat and nodded to Sherlock. They shared a cab to the Yard, John leaning on Sherlock, and then hopped out when they arrived.

Sergeant Donovan was waiting for them. "Hey, Freak, Freak's pet. Body's just through the archway."

John struggled not to bristle at Donovan's jibe, but Sherlock was one step ahead.

"Thank you, Sally. And did you have a safe trip home last night? Your house and Anderson's are quite far apart."

Donovan glared at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, by the state of your hair, you were walking outside very late last night and didn't brush it. And, once again, you are wearing deodorant meant for the opposite gender." And with that, Sherlock brushed past her, pulling John by the hand.

John and Sherlock were stifling giggles when they met up with Lestrade. The man eyed them suspiciously, then seemed to give a mental shrug. "Glad you two showed up. Happy birthday, John, by the way. How old now?"

"Twenty-five." John stated. Lestrade laughed.

"Find that hard to believe. But anyway. What can you deduce about this one?" Lestrade turned to gesture at the crime scene.

Sherlock stood over the body, stooping over to get a better view. John stood next to Lestrade, and the two silently held up fingers to each other, John one and Lestrade two. Their eyes twinkled with friendly competition.

Sherlock flipped up the collar of the dead man's shirt. Then he slipped a passport out of his pocket, examined it, and put it back. Next he swiped a finger on the soles of the shoes.

Turning around, he announced, "This man has been poisoned. I suspect cyanide, as his breath smells faintly of almonds. However, the curious thing is that the poison was administered posthumously, for some reason. The man was killed in another way."

John held out his hand. Lestrade slipped him some money. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Still doing this?"

Lestrade laughed. "It's a pride thing, now. I have to win back all the money I've lost to this guy."

John raised an eyebrow. "Just how are you going to do that? I can always tell how long it will take Sherlock to make a deduction."

Sherlock gave a half-smile. "You gave me a whole two minutes, Lestrade? How generous."

Lestrade shook his head. "You've gotten quicker. Didn't think it was possible."

"Track down this man. You have his passport. I want to know everything you find out." Sherlock started walking away. "John, we're going to a café to interrogate the owner."

"Why?" John removed his gloves.

"Receipt." Sherlock held a slip of paper up between two fingers.

After they left the crime scene and made their way to Hamlet's Outlet, Sherlock very insistently asked to speak to the manager. When he came out, Sherlock held up a photo of the body.

"Recognize this man?"

Twenty minutes later, they were on their way to an out-of-the-way place that was infamous for selling illegal substances.

"John, wait out here." Sherlock said, taking off his coat.

"Hang on, why?" John protested.

"You don't know how a drug addict twitches. You would ruin the whole operation. I'll be back in a moment." Sherlock disappeared into the building. John waited anxiously while Sherlock was inside. Checking his watch, he decided to have a look around.

Walking around the side of the building, he saw a garbage bin. Holding back his disgust, he poked through it. An umbrella stood out to him, as the tip was bent at an awkward angle. He pulled it out and examined it.

When Sherlock returned, John was holding the umbrella and looking grave.

"It wasn't cyanide." He said. "It was Ricin, extracted from the castor bean."

Sherlock took the umbrella. "Ricin? That hasn't been used since the… twentieth century. In 1978, a journalist by the name of Georgi Markov was killed when a man stabbed him with an umbrella loaded with the poison. And again in 1920, Italian dictator Mussolini had people executed by pouring castor oil down their throats. But why do it today?"

John thought of something. "Sherlock, I've just remembered, have you heard of the Castor Club? It's a London gang, and the leader is Denny Castor. I would check them out."

"I did hear. That's what the addicts in there were talking about. At least, they were talking about the gang. I didn't connect them to the murder." Sherlock admitted.

"Well, we've got a lead at least." John encouraged Sherlock. "Let's go find Denny."

Sherlock stared at John. John looked back. "What?"

Sherlock just smiled. Then he took John's hand. "You're amazing, John Watson, and I love you."

"I love you, too." John responded.

"Happy birthday, now let's go catch a criminal." Sherlock took off at a run, dragging a grinning John with him.

***

"Sir, I believe Sherlock sent you a message." Mycroft turned around.

"Yes, he did. I got it, thank you, Genevieve."

Genevieve (also known as Anthea, Serendipity, and once, Kyle) nodded, typing away on her blackberry. "Need anything?"

"Ah, yes." Mycroft gazed out the window at the night. "My brother has requested a ring. He doesn't know how to choose such a thing, probably deleted the information."

"A ring?" Genevieve actually set down her phone. "He's going to…?"

Mycroft chuckled. "Propose? I believe that's what he has in mind."

"Let me guess. You already have one picked out." His assistant mused.

Mycroft pulled a small box out of his pocket. "It's been in my possession for over two years, my dear." He grinned. "I set up this day."

Genevieve sighed, but smiled. "You should play matchmaker more often. You improve London when you do."

"Oh, Sherlock would never admit it was me that set them up." Mycroft told her. "But maybe this will improve our relationship at the same time."

"I have no doubt." Genevieve picked up her phone again. "Want me to deliver that?"

"Yes, please." Mycroft resumed staring out the window. His eyes fell on one building, easily picking it out among thousands of others with the practice of many nights watching over his brother. "Congratulations, Sherlock." He whispered once Genevieve had left. "Best of luck."


End file.
